“Dear Sir,” it began as usual, making Jessica’s mouth curl up in a smile of sardonic amusement. She had never met the men who published her drawings, but she envisioned them both as rather short and exceedingly stodgy, and she could just imagine their chagrin were they ever to discover that their unknown satirist was a woman…. “Dear Sir,” she read again, “we were most distressed to learn of your recent illness, and we regret that your indisposition has affected the number of drawings you were able to submit to us. While the quality of those you did send was, as usual, excellent, and although the sketches of ‘Erinys’ are becoming increasingly popular—the first printing of the cartoon ‘Cornelia Weeps’ sold out in two days—we hope you will understand that we cannot pay your usual—” She skimmed the rest of the page to the final, “Wishing for your renewed health and productivity, we remain,” then she wadded the paper into a ball and flung it into the fire, just missing the edge of the soup kettle.
Damn those clutch-fisted old bastards! she thought irritably. Would it really have been asking too much to expect them to pay her the extra few pounds she usually received for her work, especially when, by their own admission, the satirical cartoons of Erinys were proving to be the most popular item produced by their shop? Of course she deserved better compensation. She wasn’t a beginner anymore, begging for someone, anyone, to publish her work. Her scathing and expertly drawn indictments of the ton were enjoyed by the same people who relished those of Gillray and Rowlandson, and while she hesitated to equate herself with those master satirists, she knew that her work was superior to, say, the crudities of John Mason, her nearest competitor. She was certain that Mssrs. Haxton and Welles knew it too, and she found herself wishing desperately for a chance to go to London and confront them.
But she could not to go London. Her carefully guarded anonymity was as much a trap as a protection. She could not face her publishers without revealing that “Erinys,” named after one of the avenging Furies of the Greek myths, was not only a woman, but also the notorious Jessica Foxe, the drawing teacher, upstart daughter of an impecunious country parson, who eloped to Scotland with the younger brother of an earl, and then, when her noble brother-in-law magnanimously recognized the marriage and allowed the errant couple to live at Renard Chase, his palatial country estate, proved herself to be quarrelsome and encroaching and utterly blind to the gracious condescension being shown her. The same Jessica Foxe who capped all her previous misadventures by running away the night of her husband’s funeral.
Willa, reading with the accuracy of long acquaintance the grim expressions playing over Jessica’s bloodless features, handed her mistress a steaming mug of broth and said, “Here, eat something. There’s no problem in the world that doesn’t seem more solvable when you’re warm and have food in you.”
Jessica accepted the cup with thanks, but she only half heard her friend’s comforting words. Smooth brow furrowed, she was lost in the memory of a dream-washed spring day eighteen months before, the day she had been made brutally aware that, for a poor clergyman’s daughter, at least, even some dreams could be dangerous….
* * * *
Looking back, she wondered if the day had really been as beautiful as she remembered, or if her memories were tainted by her own emotions. She had been nineteen and in love. Her eyes had challenged the fresh new leaves on the elm trees for greenness, her step had been light despite the heavy wooden sabots she wore, almost a skip, undaunted by the prospect of the eight miles she must walk from the Palladian grandeur of Renard Chase back to her home in the village. She knew that at the vicarage she would have no time to rest before she was expected to oversee the feeding and bathing of her numerous younger siblings, and later she would have to help her worn and ailing mother, who was rake thin except for her expanding belly, try to find enough good bits of fabric left in cast-off garments to piece together a new dress for the forthcoming baby. The twice-weekly drawing lessons Jessica gave—or rather, tried to give—to Lady Claire Foxe, the incredibly spoiled half sister of Lord Raeburn, a gawky fifteen-year-old with red hair and freckles, were regarded by her father as something of a holiday, a frivolous waste of time that he permitted only because the money she received helped eke out his inadequate stipend.
Jessica herself knew how little enjoyment she received from those lessons. Lady Claire was willful and capricious, and when crossed, she was inclined to draw herself up like a disapproving dowager and try to intimidate Jessica with un-subtle reminders of her great wealth and rank. Occasionally Jessica had felt as if she would explode with the effort to contain her temper when Claire made some cutting remark about her shabby clothes or hinted that her unfashionable slenderness was less the result of diet than of genuine hunger. Long used to dealing with unruly children, Jessica had forced herself merely to laugh at the girl’s airs, knowing how disastrous it would be ever to permit her to see that some of her cruel jibes had found their mark. But Andrew had known, Andrew, Lady Claire’s brother, twenty years old but looking younger, so like his little sister in coloring that they might have been mistaken for twins…. From beneath a drooping lock of bright red hair he had gazed at Jessica with brown eyes soft with a sympathy she had never encountered before in a man, and she had fallen in love.
Of course she had known that it was hopeless, poor clergymen’s daughters did not aspire to the sons of peers. Her father had already made it quite clear that as soon as her mother had convalesced from this latest lying-in, now that Jessica’s younger sisters were of an age to help with the new baby, Jessica herself would be expected to leave home, find herself a husband, preferably a prosperous merchant or at least a farmer who could help supply food for the vicarage table. To dream of someone like the Honourable Andrew Foxe was vanity, so utterly impossible that it showed wanton disregard for the well-being of her family. Jessica had known all that, and yet, the mere fact of being in love had been so novel, so strangely pleasant, that she succumbed without a fight, expecting no more from Andrew than an understanding glance now and then, a murmured word, perhaps—perhaps the furtive brush of fingers as they passed in the portrait gallery at Renard Chase after one of Claire’s lessons….
She never dared hope that Andrew might also have dreams.
In her stuffy kitchen Jessica remembered how blithely she had walked back toward the village that bright spring day, strolling along the edge of the dusty roadway, her portfolio in one hand, her shabby straw bonnet dangling by its strings from the other. Ahead of her, in the shade of a spreading oak tree, she had noticed a clump of butter-colored daffodils with white trumpets, and she debated whether she ought to pick some to take to her mother, who was weathering her eleventh pregnancy with less fortitude than she had the previous ones, especially after suffering two miscarriages in six months. Finally Jessica reluctantly decided against the flowers, knowing that if she arrived at the vicarage with anything so frivolous as a fragrant armload of daffodils, her father would accuse her of dawdling; if he was in the right mood, he would proceed to issue a sermon on indolence and the perils of admiring earthly beauty…. Wistfully Jessica had resumed her walk. Although she was sorry to have left Andrew’s home, she reminded herself philosophically that each passing moment brought her that much closer to the time when she would return to him again. And, she admitted, a little confused by the contrariness of her emotions, in some ways it was much easier to be in love with him when they were apart, when she could weave her fantasies without practical considerations, without having to worry about the watchful eyes of servants or the chaperon, or his spying brat of a sister….
Suddenly her thoughts had been interrupted by an unusual sound just behind her, the growing thunder of galloping hooves. Jessica knew that on the highways mail coaches traveled as much as ten miles an hour, and once she had overheard two men discussing the work of some Scottish engineer, Mc Adam or something like that, who had devised a new type of road surface that would allow even greater velocities, but here in the country, ungainly vehicles and poor main
tenance of the rutted and uneven roadways meant that horses and people traveled at only two speeds, slow and slower. She turned curiously to see what fool could be risking his neck by riding at such a pace.
She was greatly surprised when she recognized the man galloping ventre a terre on the huge smoke-colored stallion as the Earl of Raeburn, Andrew’s much older half brother, who, she was certain Andrew had said, was in London on business.
Quickly she jumped aside onto the grassy verge to let horse and rider pass, but to her amazement, just as they pulled abreast of her, Raeburn yanked back on the ribbons, and the stallion whinnied and reared, forelegs slashing the air. Alarmed, Jessica shrank back still further, inadvertently stepping into a puddle that slopped muddily over the toes of her wooden shoes. “Oh, Lud,” she groaned in dismay. The sabots belonged to her next younger sister, who had grudgingly loaned them to Jessica so that she could save wear on her one pair of “good” shoes during the long hikes to Renard Chase. Momentarily forgetting her fright, she dropped her bonnet and sketchbook onto the grass and, pulling the damp hem of her skirt above her ankles, leaned over to survey the damage.
“Very pretty,” a deep voice drawled, and she glanced up to find Lord Raeburn staring down at her appreciatively with hooded eyes the same smoky gray as his horse. Even afoot, the earl was a big man, broad and heavily muscled, but still mounted, he towered above her like some monumental colossus, and suddenly Jessica felt cold with dread. The skirt slipped from her chilled fingers, and she stood upright again, bewildered and threatened by his slow, insinuating appraisal. His gaze roved the length of her body, passing over her green eyes and long raven hair twisted into a thick knot at the nape of her slender neck, to linger on her swelling bosom that strained the bodice of the outgrown dress. Watching him apprehensively, Jessica blushed and crossed her hands over her breast in a futile effort to shield herself from him. The earl smiled lazily at her discomfiture. His eyes moved lower, tracing her narrow waist and the long, sleek curve of her thighs with such accuracy that Jessica’s color deepened; too late she realized that in the bright sunshine her body must be clearly outlined beneath the worn fabric of her gown….
Just when she thought she could bear no more of his scrutiny, the earl touched the brim of his hat with affected courtesy and murmured, “Tell me, pretty miss, have you seen—” He broke off abruptly as his gray eyes flicked away from her to the portfolio lying on the ground. His mouth hardened. “You’re the drawing teacher?” he exclaimed.
“Y-yes, my lord,” Jessica stammered, bobbing a curtsy, confused as much by his initial gallantry as by his inexplicable change of mood. “I’m Jessica Marsh.”
Raeburn’s fair brows lifted. “You’re not what I expected,” he muttered under his breath. “There must be more to Andrew than I….” With a sudden lithe movement, unexpectedly graceful for so large a man, he swung down from the saddle. He patted the great stallion firmly on its gleaming flank, and it moved away a few paces and began to crop the grass, docile as a sheep. Stalking across the space the horse had vacated, Raeburn loomed over Jessica, tall and blond and oddly threatening. She wanted to retreat, but she was brought up short by the puddle, and she had no choice but to let him approach her.
He stood so close that she could smell the hot, masculine scent of his powerful body, and the intimacy of that odor disturbed her. She had never seen him before except at a distance, usually in the autumn when he and a collection of elegant houseguests rode through the village on their way back from a hunt, and now she caught her breath, not daring to meet his flinty gaze. Instead she kept her eyes carefully trained on the white tops of his spurred boots. He was so big, she thought; almost too big for gentility—utterly different from his younger brother, a slender, fine-boned patrician of the mode that she had always assumed was the pattern for members of the aristocracy. Raeburn was far above average in height, and while the tight buckskin riding breeches and fashionable Newmarket coat revealed a body that carried not an ounce of surplus flesh, he was so heavily muscled that he gave the impression of being stocky. Remembering the lavish parties that Lady Claire claimed her older brother often attended in London, Jessica drooped her silky lashes low over her eyes, just for a second diverted by the spectacle of this—this human mountain tripping his way through the intricate figures of a country dance….
Her faint smile disappeared when large, blunt fingertips hooked in the soft skin under her chin and jerked her head up roughly. Jessica’s green eyes widened with pain. “Lord Raeburn!” she choked indignantly.
His hand dropped away as he scowled at her use of his title. “So you do know who I am,” he muttered.
Jessica nodded, robbing her jaw. “Of—of course. You are the earl. Everyone knows that.”
Studying her wan face grimly, he demanded, “Does everyone also know that you are my brother’s whore?”
The accusation was so unexpected, so completely unfounded, that for a moment Jessica could only gape at him, rigid with shock, uncertain that she had heard him correctly. Her mouth worked mutely, but she could make no words come. Raeburn, watching her efforts unsympathetically, snapped, “Oh, don’t bother to deny it. I have it from numerous sources. Andrew himself—”
At this betrayal, Jessica found her voice. “No!” she cried hoarsely, her mind whirling. “You’re lying! He’s never—he would never—”
“He wrote to me in London and told me he wants to marry you,” Raeburn rasped. “Just now, when I reached the Chase, he told me the same thing again. With a moon-minded adolescent like Andrew, that can only mean that you’ve fallen for his baby and he has some idiot notion of making—”
Utterly shaken, Jessica did not listen to the rest of the man’s ranting. Marriage? she echoed silently, stunned. The Honourable Andrew Foxe, the peer’s son, who had never kissed her, had never declared his love in anything but speaking glances, had actually applied to his autocratic brother for permission to marry her? She shook her head fiercely. No, it was impossible. Somehow the earl had misunderstood. Huskily Jessica said, “There’s been some mistake.”
“I know,” Raeburn answered drily, his eyes raking over her with scathing intent, “and you made it. You set your sights too high, my girl. I don’t know how you’ve managed, to convince my sister’s chaperon that you’re fit to teach her drawing, but don’t think that the fact that you’ve been permitted inside the Chase makes you better than you are. I will never permit my brother to be trapped into marriage with a scheming little doxy who has probably tumbled in the hay with every—”
“But I am not—not with child!” Jessica persisted, wanting to scream hysterically. Her eyes glistened with tears of embarrassment and temper. “I have never—no one has ever—”
He snorted, “Don’t play the innocent with me, miss! I know what life is like on the farm. The country girl hasn’t been born yet who could keep her maidenhead to the age of fifteen.”
“But you’re wrong about me!” Jessica shrieked, so shrilly that she shocked herself. With great effort she brought her voice back under control. “If I were…what you think, it would be unlikely that I would know how…the drawing lessons…my—my father is a clergyman,” she finished lamely.
Raeburn regarded her with patent disbelief. He said, “I always thought clergymen’s families were expected to maintain an air of respectability, however shabby. That dress you’re wearing….” His voice trailed off suggestively.
Jessica colored again, recalling the times she had pleaded with her father to be able to replace the outgrown dress. His response had been to charge her to consider the lilies of the field…. “I have seven younger brothers and sisters,” she said stiltedly, hating this man who was forcing her to make excuses. “My father’s parish is a small one, and of necessity we must…practice economy.”
“Indeed,” Raeburn drawled, beginning his outrageous appraisal of her body once more. “It sounds to me as if it would be more to the point were your father to practice a little abstinence.”
Jes
sica slapped him.
The action came so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she had no time to debate its wisdom, in that moment of fury knowing only that no matter who he was or what he might say about her, she would not allow him to insult her family. But even as the sound of the blow still echoed across the empty, sunlit fields on either side of the road, and her small hand stung as if she had struck it flat against a boulder, the rashness of what she had done seeped into her, and Jessica stared up at him fearfully.
He did not flinch, but even in the shadow cast by the brim of his tall hat, the star-shaped imprint of her hand glared ruddily on his tanned cheek, and as she watched, in the pupils of his eyes tiny flames began to blaze like bonfires set in the gray London snow. Jessica retreated, heedless of the puddle behind her, but before she could take even one step, large hands lashed out and captured her thin arms in living manacles, hauling her toward him and crashing her against the granite wall of his chest.
“Listen to me, clergyman’s daughter,” he growled, as she gasped for air, “do you know who I am? Do you know what behavior like yours invites? I could take you here, now, in the mud, with no one to hear your screams, and even if they did, they would not dare to interfere….”
His long fingers wound painfully into her thick hair, jerking her head back so that the curve of her slender neck clear down to the swell of her burgeoning breasts was exposed to his contemptuous gaze. His head moved closer, and she could feel his breath hot on her sensitive skin. “A-Andrew would s-stop you,” she stammered, her heart fluttering against the inside of her chest like a wild bird caught in a cage.
Raeburn snorted cynically. “My little brother would be the last person to come between me and my pleasures. He’s never defied me in his life. Once he discovers I want you for myself, he won’t look at you again—”
The Clergyman's Daughter Page 2